Going for a walk in Cairo is neither satisfying exercise nor relaxing -- the sidewalk is broken or piled with trash and prowled by mangy cats; greasy young men intercept pedestrians on motorbikes. But in going for a walk in Cairo, every step carries a memory.
Today, my second-to-last day in this city, I found myself with little to do. The cleaning lady had shuffled off in my old sandals with a bulging bag of my old clothes and encouragement to return to Egypt, with God's permission. So I decided to walk, something I never do here without a purpose, though I have often thought of it. Both in Barrytown and Princeton, walks cleared my mind; in Cairo, I worried too much about my meditative silence being broken by catcalls - Hey honey! - or simply the inconvenience of sweating through all my clothes.
I first walked south from Medan El Mesaha to the Orman Botanical Garden. I walked past Metro Supermarket and the teen shoki man with his cart of prickly pears. National security guards in black swung bags of food in anticipation of eftar. When I reached the tall, wrought iron gates of Orman, I found them shut. The road was blocked and a tank parked outside, flag flying and gun pointed up the street. Last summer, a friend from CASA had led a few of us through the park in search of the elusive hoopoe bird, which bears a certain magical significance in Arab mythology. We had found the bird, but also that most of the plants were wilted or overgrown, the lily pond clouded over with algae. Like the zoo or the buildings of downtown, Orman preserved only whispers of its former glory. This spring, I had attended the annual flower exhibition in the garden, where vendors set up tents filled with landscaping devices like fountains and waterfalls and potted fruit trees. What lay beneath was hidden.
I turned around and walked back up Mesaha Street, returning to the square. I strolled past Pizza Hut, where I had waited in front of the TV with Sarah last summer for the presidential election results to be announced. Then, Cilantro -- the upscale coffee shop where I had once sat with Adam and brainstormed a name for this blog; and then, in April, where I first met Magdy when he came to pay me to translate his screenplay.
I kept walking northward, past the rotted guava man and the basket man, past the Ramadan tent erected by Seoudi supermarket to provide for the exploding demand for dried apricots and nuts during the holiday season. Then it was Miriam and Robin's old apartment building, where we had ended the summer crouched on Oriental carpets stretched out on the roof -- looking out at the Nile, sipping Stellas, and trying to envision the year that lay ahead.
I reached Medan Galaa, where I saw the first APC roll into my neighborhood on the morning of July 3, the day the military would overthrow President Morsi. Then I crossed the bridge into Zamalek, remembering the first time I was coaxed (not unwillingly) into attending my first march back in November. Crossing the same bridge we'd been nearly caught under a huge Egyptian flag, as the crowds surged forward chanting horeya, horeya, horeya -- freedom. On the wall of the Opera complex, two slogans sat side by side. La lel felool, read one, No to the remnants of the old (Mubarak) regime. And next to it: Erhal ya kharouf -- Get lost, you sheep. They embodied the political transformations of the last year, since I arrived in Egypt: one government abolished, then another. No slogan called for anyone in particular to take their place.
Eventually I reached the entrance to a park that faces the Opera. The gate was wide open, and I approached to purchase my ticket from one of the several men sitting idly nearby.
-La, closed, said one, making a gesture of finality.
-But the gate is wide open, sir, I pointed out.
-No, we are preparing for eftar! It is almost time!
-Sir, eftar is not for another two and a half hours. Can I please come in?
-Go to that other park over there!
Defeated again in a typically nonsensical but perfectly friendly Cairo moment. I sat at the waterfront, looking out at the burned-out NDP building on the other side of the Nile. The feluccas sit idle, awaiting sundown so commerce could begin in earnest. A few eager couples held hands on the benches behind me. I sat for a long time -- reading, writing, thinking -- moving through the other spaces in Cairo I knew I would miss.
Today, my second-to-last day in this city, I found myself with little to do. The cleaning lady had shuffled off in my old sandals with a bulging bag of my old clothes and encouragement to return to Egypt, with God's permission. So I decided to walk, something I never do here without a purpose, though I have often thought of it. Both in Barrytown and Princeton, walks cleared my mind; in Cairo, I worried too much about my meditative silence being broken by catcalls - Hey honey! - or simply the inconvenience of sweating through all my clothes.
I first walked south from Medan El Mesaha to the Orman Botanical Garden. I walked past Metro Supermarket and the teen shoki man with his cart of prickly pears. National security guards in black swung bags of food in anticipation of eftar. When I reached the tall, wrought iron gates of Orman, I found them shut. The road was blocked and a tank parked outside, flag flying and gun pointed up the street. Last summer, a friend from CASA had led a few of us through the park in search of the elusive hoopoe bird, which bears a certain magical significance in Arab mythology. We had found the bird, but also that most of the plants were wilted or overgrown, the lily pond clouded over with algae. Like the zoo or the buildings of downtown, Orman preserved only whispers of its former glory. This spring, I had attended the annual flower exhibition in the garden, where vendors set up tents filled with landscaping devices like fountains and waterfalls and potted fruit trees. What lay beneath was hidden.
I turned around and walked back up Mesaha Street, returning to the square. I strolled past Pizza Hut, where I had waited in front of the TV with Sarah last summer for the presidential election results to be announced. Then, Cilantro -- the upscale coffee shop where I had once sat with Adam and brainstormed a name for this blog; and then, in April, where I first met Magdy when he came to pay me to translate his screenplay.
I kept walking northward, past the rotted guava man and the basket man, past the Ramadan tent erected by Seoudi supermarket to provide for the exploding demand for dried apricots and nuts during the holiday season. Then it was Miriam and Robin's old apartment building, where we had ended the summer crouched on Oriental carpets stretched out on the roof -- looking out at the Nile, sipping Stellas, and trying to envision the year that lay ahead.
I reached Medan Galaa, where I saw the first APC roll into my neighborhood on the morning of July 3, the day the military would overthrow President Morsi. Then I crossed the bridge into Zamalek, remembering the first time I was coaxed (not unwillingly) into attending my first march back in November. Crossing the same bridge we'd been nearly caught under a huge Egyptian flag, as the crowds surged forward chanting horeya, horeya, horeya -- freedom. On the wall of the Opera complex, two slogans sat side by side. La lel felool, read one, No to the remnants of the old (Mubarak) regime. And next to it: Erhal ya kharouf -- Get lost, you sheep. They embodied the political transformations of the last year, since I arrived in Egypt: one government abolished, then another. No slogan called for anyone in particular to take their place.
Eventually I reached the entrance to a park that faces the Opera. The gate was wide open, and I approached to purchase my ticket from one of the several men sitting idly nearby.
-La, closed, said one, making a gesture of finality.
-But the gate is wide open, sir, I pointed out.
-No, we are preparing for eftar! It is almost time!
-Sir, eftar is not for another two and a half hours. Can I please come in?
-Go to that other park over there!
Defeated again in a typically nonsensical but perfectly friendly Cairo moment. I sat at the waterfront, looking out at the burned-out NDP building on the other side of the Nile. The feluccas sit idle, awaiting sundown so commerce could begin in earnest. A few eager couples held hands on the benches behind me. I sat for a long time -- reading, writing, thinking -- moving through the other spaces in Cairo I knew I would miss.
No comments:
Post a Comment